


Past The End-Posts of Our Course

by phenanthrene_blue



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst for days, Bisexual Character, Character Study, Closeted Character, Exhibitionism, Homophobia, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Injury Recovery, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, New York Yankees, Not Consistent With Author's Previous Canon, Religious Guilt, Secret Relationship, The Sexual Awakening of Aaron Judge, lots of porn and lots of feelings, set during the 2018 season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-29 20:46:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17815226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phenanthrene_blue/pseuds/phenanthrene_blue
Summary: It was the absolute last thing they all needed in 2018, after yet another disappointing bow out of the playoffs and way too much hand-wringing in the off-season. He was sure of it.





	Past The End-Posts of Our Course

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to finish all of the 2018-related things in my WIP folder! Many, many thanks to ohtempora for beta-ing my dumb ass over holiday break, enabling my weird Yankees feels in a productive manner, and especially for ensuring that this Midwesterner didn't completely misrepresent goings-on in New York. <3
> 
> This is totally fictional. Nonetheless, homophobia (including internalized homophobia with religious undertones) is a major theme in this story. There are also references to actual incidents in which several MLB players' homophobic/racist tweets were discovered. Said thematics might be uncomfortable to read; reader discretion is thus advised. 
> 
> Title is from the last line of an erotic poem by Anacreon, written ca. 500 BC.

When Aaron first found out that Giancarlo Stanton was going to be a Yankee, he was secretly almost certain that he wouldn’t like it - like _him_ at all. 

(Of course, he had told Cash and the Office it was all okay when they asked him about the signing, and went along with everything. What else was he supposed to say?)

Aaron had met people like him before, and had heard even more accounts of it: rich playboys with huge contracts who puffed around the place like they owned it; man-children whose hubris exceeded their talent, luxury tax be damned; guys whose sense of entitlement always reared up and caused drama in the clubhouse at times when nobody needed it. It was the absolute last thing they all needed in 2018, after yet another disappointing bow out of the playoffs and way too much hand-wringing in the off-season. He was sure of it.

But Aaron is young, and sheltered, and perhaps even presumptuous, because Giancarlo - or G, as he had introduced himself - is really not like that at all.

In fact, G is just hard-working, and punctual, and even-tempered, and rather meticulous, and, most surprisingly, really pretty private in a way that Aaron definitely didn’t expect, or even understand. He’s well-dressed, and has a corny sense of humor, and likes to laugh. And he’s fast, and he can hit a fucking _mile_ , and the way he runs through fielding drills is perfect in an almost scholarly way.

After about a week of actually knowing him, the cognitive dissonance fades, and Aaron’s distrust gets rapidly displaced by admiration (and maybe a smidgeon of jealousy. Youth can cause that too.)

The regular season starts, and the Yankees, structuredas they are, reveal their peculiar habit of arranging the hotel rooms by position. Naturally, both being outfielders, Aaron and Giancarlo get paired together. Not all the time, but sometimes. During those sometimes they usually watch a movie, or trashy true crime shows, or just chat a little. Neither of them stays out way too late, or stumbles in overly inebriated, or makes a mess of the room, or really does anything that problematic or annoying to the other.

Everything’s normal. Their relationship is professional, and friendly, like it ought to be. 

Then they go to Anaheim, and Aaron comes back from talking with Boone in the hotel lobby for way longer than he expected. It’s probably 10 PM when he puts his key-card into the door.

And he walks in on G, on the bed, with his laptop next to him.

The room is mostly dark, but he can still recognize what’s going on. G is jacking off. To porn.

Jacking off, definitely, to _gay porn_.

_Oh God._

Aaron tries to back himself out of the room as silently as possible. But he ends up catching his foot on the corner of the folded-up ironing board that is sticking out of the closet for some reason, and he stumbles and causes an increasingly obnoxious series of noises. Giancarlo slams his laptop closed and turns around. He’s wide-eyed and guilty and there’s something _else_ under there but Aaron doesn’t know what, and all Aaron can muster is “… _uh_.”

Around five seconds pass, which might as well be five hours, before G speaks first. 

“Did you see…?”

Aaron says nothing. Because anything he could say would be inappropriate or creepy, and it’s not a conversation Aaron wants to have. At least he  _thinks_ he doesn’t - somehow part of Aaron is suddenly, oddly curious about it, but Giancarlo pushes the thought aside _for_ him when he stands and ushers Aaron back toward the door.

“I won’t say anything.” Aaron finally says quickly, like he’s trying to reassure G somehow. But G turns his palms up toward Aaron as he steps out. “Really, I won’t, I-“ 

“Just…go down to the bar and have a drink with Didi, or something.” Giancarlo sighs. 

The door clicks closed, right in his face.

Aaron doesn’t really like alcohol much, but he decides to follow G’s suggestion anyway.

*** 

You know when you stub your toe _really_ hard and it hurts for a full twenty-four hours, and every step you take is a painful little reminder of ill-placed furniture or your annoying lack of coordination?

_It’s like that._

There’s some sort of invisible barrier between Aaron and G now, the kind of odd wall put up by having a mutual understanding of something that you really _shouldn’t have_. Everything’s friendly and proper as usual. But every time Aaron looks at him, he’s reminded of Anaheim. He’s reminded of his key-card in the door, and of Giancarlo’s expression, which was, well, not-quite-ashamed. But-somehow-not-quite- _displeased_ , either. And he has the distinct memory of staring sightlessly at the bottom of his glass at the bar and having Didi ask _is something wrong?_

 _It made no sense. Among the other things he had imagined, Aaron had this preconceived notion that in his personal life, G was simply a low-calorie version of Derek Jeter: partying and clubbing and banging half the chicks in the Bronx without any regard for anything but his own pleasure. But_ nothing  _about Giancarlo had made_ any  _sense up to this point, so why should he be surprised?_

_Then Aaron is reminded of other things. Things he had previously tried to kill and bury that are now coming uncomfortably close to the surface._

  _Aaron realized that he was gay when he was ten years old; right after he found out that he was adopted. Since there was nothing wrong with the latter, all curiosity and confusion and later, spite, were steered and pointed at the_ former _. His parents had told him that they would love him no matter what, but they couldn’t love him like_ that _, could they? God didn’t really make him_ that way _, did He?_

So he ignored it.

While his college teammates were going to house parties and bars and hooking up with pretty girls from the beach or the sororities, Aaron was fussing over his term paper or working in the batting cages. Nobody really _asked_ ; it’s extremely easy to hide behind humbleness and church on Sunday and a good upbringing.

That’s how Aaron ends up here, idly throwing sunflower seeds into the grass behind home plate, kneeling and tracing a few random things with his finger in the dirt of the box. Praying, and _thinking_. He’s twenty-six years old and hasn’t told a single person. He can count the number of times he’s had wholly unsatisfying or embarrassing sex on one hand. There was the time he was eighteen - peer pressure - and then there was that crazy girl from Minnesota or wherever, and…well, _he’d just rather not remember any of it_.

For the next week after California, every interaction Aaron has with G is strictly about baseball. Both of them seem to want it that way. G’s questions are almost scripted. _Where’s my new bat? What’s the lineup tonight? What film are we watching? Booney tells me your wrist is a little sore today, is that true?_

Aaron answers “yeah, a little.” to the last one, and G takes him to the trainer’s room. He kicks the door shut as he’s wrapping Aaron’s wrist with dark blue athletic tape, and then he looks up at him. There’s something about the _way_ Giancarlo looks at him that Aaron simply can’t place, sort of like the way it was in…

“Anaheim.” G starts. “The night before the first game with the Angels. If that happens…”

Aaron still doesn’t really want to have this conversation. But, well…he’s going to _have_ it, whether he likes or not.

 _“_ If you walk in like that again…you can stay.”

Oh God, Oh God. _Oh._ _God._

Aaron tries to say something but it doesn’t come out as _words_ , so then he tries again.

“G, are you _flirting_ with me? Like, is this a proposition, or…”

“If that’s what you want.” G smiles a little, his eyes flitting around like he expects someone to overhear them. “I mean…do you _like_ guys?”

There’s a pregnant pause, and then he nods slowly, and Giancarlo becomes the first person Aaron has ever told.

_Shit, he shouldn’t have done that._

“…You?”

“Switch-hitter.” Giancarlo says,  “You know, where…” 

“I _know_ what it _means_.” Aaron stops him. The adrenaline is just _pooling_ in him, and it’s getting quite uncomfortable, and Aaron feels himself starting to sweat. He doesn’t even know _why_. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Your call. It’s really all okay though. Nothing’s leaving this room." 

G shrugs, like he expects Aaron to say more, but Aaron doesn’t and sees himself out.

*** 

Now Aaron _really_ can’t stop thinking, and whatever this whole episode _woke up_ , well…it’s going to be the death of him.

First, he goes over it again and again, asking himself whether G was actually being _serious_ , or if he was just joking around in that cheesy, coy way that he does sometimes.

Then he remembers that Giancarlo was _actually flirting_ with him. And then he wonders if he _interpreted_ it right, or  _recalled_ it correctly, or _what_.

Then Aaron spends two whole games swinging for the downs and missing like an idiot. He has a routine fly ball sail over his head because he's _not looking at the ball_. Instead, he catches himself looking over at Giancarlo whenever he gets the chance. He’s never noticed just how  _good_ #27 looks in pinstripes before, or how the frightening power in G’s swings is _absolutely mesmerizing_ to watch. By the third game, he’s downright staring.

 _What the_ hell _is he doing?!_  

By the fourth, he can’t even make eye contact, and the one time G actually finds his gaze, he raises his eyebrows a little and  _smiles_. There’s actually something _knowing_ therein his eyes and Aaron is going to be ruined, absolutely prostrated before the altar of his own sinful thoughts, if this continues much longer.

And shit, it _does,_ and it doesn't matter how many times or how many ways he avoids G in the clubhouse or the dugout. Or how many nights he goes home and sleeps after the game so he doesn’t give it more mental energy than he wants to. He can’t get it out of his mind. For a few solitary moments here and there, he doesn’t care that G is his teammate. He wants to do things that he hasn’t thought about in a _decade_ ; things that make his face flush hot late at night and sit too-heavy in his stomach. Giancarlo has gotten so far under his skin that it’s… almost _funny,_ in a masochistic way. _Local repressed Christian boy has fantasies about his teammate! News at eleven!_

There’s a couple days where things seem better. He gets a bunch of solid hits and the weather’s beautiful, and Aaron thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ , his head is going to reset itself to its pre-California state.

And then Aaron has a dream, a ridiculous and sexy dream where he walks in on Giancarlo again. It’s that same partially darkened room. Aaron even trips coming through the door again, like he’s got pool noodles for legs.

But this time, G’s getting himself off to video of Aaron in the Home Run Derby last year.

And there’s no guilt in it, in him, in either of them, at all.

When Aaron wakes up, his head is ready to explode.

He’s overslept his alarm, and it’s too damn hot in his bedroom, and now he has to get ready to go to Washington DC. And thank God he’s going to be rooming with Hicks this trip because he’s not sure what he’d do if the assignments had been _different_.

Aaron actually hasn’t had a crush on someone since single-A.

 _But this, whatever_ it _is, is going to be_ really bad _. He can tell._

***

Same routine, different city: get off the bus, check in, have dinner, and loiter around in the lobby. Often, when he’s just sitting there reading the news on his phone, Boone will stop by and ask _if he’s okay_ , and _how he’s feeling_ \- checking up on him in an almost paternal way, like he needs looking after, somehow.

Tonight Aaron decides, like he's decided a lot lately, that he’s going to sleep early; Hicks has gone to some club with the infield, anyway.

The hotel in DC isn’t half-bad, Aaron thinks, when he steps out of the elevator on the eighth floor. Understated, perhaps, relative to New York, but at least the carpets are clean.

He and Hicks have got room 803, at the end of the hall. 843 is Miguel and Toe. Gary was somewhere in the 820s, and 817 is…

…where Aaron finds himself stopping, but he really _should_ keep walking. _Just keep going._ He tells himself. _Just go to bed._ He tries to think about the game tomorrow, about Boone, and really, about _anything_ but room 817, but then he notices that the door is very slightly propped open.

He raises his fist and knocks. Twice.

 _Fuck. Why did he do that?_  

There’s no answer, but now _something’s_ come over Aaron, something so quick and so urgent and so dangerous that all he can do is just open the door and let himself in.

Brett is not there, having probably joined Hicks at some point in the evening. There are no lights on except for one in the bathroom and one next to the bed. G’s lounging in a chair, his long legs stretched out, with his feet up on the desk. He’s wearing nothing but black boxer-briefs, hiked down just a little. And his hand’s loosely wrapped around his _very_ hard, thick cock, and the expression he wears is relaxed and _unbelievably_ gorgeous, and he’s clearly enjoying whatever’s playing on his laptop next to him, and Aaron really doesn’t care what the hell it is this time because _holy shit, this again._

Giancarlo gives him a devious grin as soon as he notices him, and Aaron’s attempts at speech just suffocate him. He takes exactly one step backwards. 

“ _Stay_.” G breathes, arresting his thoughts.

So Aaron sits on the bed, and he watches. He’s not terribly interested in porn with the sound off, but the way G pleasures himself is methodical and slow and _fascinating_ , especially the way he switches hands, grabs his balls; flips his fist over so his knuckles face him; the particular flex of his hard forearm muscles. It’s a motion Aaron’s never seen before, never _tried_ before, and Aaron’s soon tense and so turned on that he’s just frozen rigidly in place.

Aaron then notices that Giancarlo isn’t looking at what’s on the computer.

He’s watching _him_. 

“Ok, enough of this crap.” Aaron says.

He stands, walks the three steps to the desk, and shuts the laptop with a single press of his palm. And then he’s on his _knees,_ pulling G’s shorts down a bit more, and…

 _Oh God, Oh,_ God.

“Aaron, what are you…” 

“I _want_ to.” Aaron tells him.

His mouth just touches the tip of G’s cock, and then Aaron takes him in a little further, and Giancarlo gasps out a long, exasperated breath that nearly stops Aaron’s heart.  

Aaron has never done this before. He’s _terrible_ at it. He doesn’t know what to do, and it’s all inexperience and irregularity for a few moments before he lets instinct take over with a little suction and swirls and flicks of his tongue. G tastes good, clean and slick and a little salty, and Aaron _likes_ it. He likes the growing burn in his jaw, likes the way his fingers feel resting on Giancarlo’s thighs; likes G’s hands finding the back of his neck.

He also likes when G’s breathing starts sounding labored, and how when he looks up, G’s eyes are wild and his pupils are enormous, black blowing out dark brown.

Aaron does everything harder and faster, fingers tight around the base of Giancarlo’s cock, and Aaron feels the muscles in G’s thighs lock up beneath his palms.

“ _Aaron…_ ” His voice cracks. Aaron pulls off and G comes, with a strangled sort of sob, all over Aaron’s hands.

G chuckles warmly to himself, puts two fingers under Aaron’s chin, and tilts his face upwards, almost as if he’s _inspecting_ him. G is _so_ hard to read sometimes, but when his eyes lock with Aaron’s, Aaron sees some admixture of curiosity and respect and maybe even affection.

“I can…do the same for you, if you’d…well, I’ve only done it like, three times before, but…”

“ _Fuck_ yes.”

After a bit of hurried cleanup, Giancarlo gets him on the bed, and gets him half-naked. The minute G’s lips are on his dick, Aaron thinks he’s died and begun his ascension. G is right, he’s…not exactly an  _expert,_ but he’s _thorough_ and he’s _encouraging_ and Aaron’s mind just keeps going _oh my God it’s Giancarlo, what am I_ doing?! He’s obviously never come in front of another guy before, _for_ another guy before, but just the sound of G’s voice is almost enough to do him in alone.

Aaron isn’t supposed to enjoy this. He wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the model son for his parents, for his coaches, for his faith. He was supposed to marry a nice girl, maybe a hedge fund manager’s daughter, and have a big church wedding. He was supposed to have a house in the Hamptons and two kids and a golden retriever. But Giancarlo has turned his entire world on its head, and he’s _here_ , and he’s _real_ , and he’s _amazing_ , and he’s just taking Aaron apart piece by stubborn  _piece_.

 And G gives Aaron more one determined, hard suck on head of his cock, takes him back in, and heat and pleasure tear and spike through him. Everything is obliterated and blank and _limitless_ and Aaron comes like that, embarrassingly fast, right into the wet, soft decadence of Giancarlo’s mouth. 

G swallows and licks and _licks_ until Aaron asks him to stop because it’s actually starting to _hurt_. There’s a few minutes of nothing - lost time, maybe - until Aaron gets back up and pulls his pants on quickly.

_Reality begins to settle like stirred dust, like dirt flung after a violent collision at home plate._

_What just happened?_

“Stay with me?” G asks, more of a demand than a question.

“I can’t.”

“You can’t, or…?”

“I _shouldn’t…_ we shouldn’t.”

And Aaron tiptoes out of the room, closes the door quietly, and walks - as _he should have originally_ , _God damn it! -_ to room 803. 

The following night, the Yankees lose 5-3. Aaron, a portrait of exhaustion and disrupted emotions, goes 0-for-three. Not even _close_. 

You know when you’re watching a boxing match, and you just know that, for whatever reason, one of the fighters doesn’t _have it_ , and he basically gets leveled right after the bell? 

 _It’s like that._  

*** 

Aaron spends the next six days on auto-pilot in Kansas City and Arlington. The games - half of which the Yankees lose in stupid ways - are an okay enough distraction, where he can simply _pretend_ that nothing happened for a few hours. Giancarlo seems to do the same, defaulting to business as usual and nothing but.

And then it’s back to the hotel; back to Hicks and Boone both asking Aaron repeatedly if he’s _all right_. He’s tells them differently, but no, he’s not all right; he’s a mess of sleepless nights and runaway memories and denial and shame butting heads with _so much_ desire.

 _He’d never admit it to himself, but he would’ve stayed. Aaron would’ve stayed for_ days.  _He’d have given Giancarlo_ anything _he wanted or needed and to hell with the aftermath._  

The last night of the trip, he wants to go _back_. He wants G so, so much, and it’s _out of control,_ like nothing he’s ever felt before. It gets to the point where Aaron stands outside his door - room 1223 this time - for a full five minutes.  

Then he gets paranoid. What if he’s _seen_ acting like this? What if Brett had walked in the other night? What if someone, anyone, figures out what he’s thinking and feeling and what _happened?_

_He’s the new face of the franchise. He’s supposed to be the spark the drives the engine. This…this would destroy all of them._

When his thoughts go down that road, everything thrashes and roils away inside of him until he thinks he might throw up. So he goes to the pool. He flops backwards into the water as hard as he can make himself, letting the splash, the cold, the feeling of _sinking_ take over.

Aaron sleeps the entire off-day when they get back.

_He can’t do this._

It’s the first early afternoon back in the home clubhouse before a 3 PM first pitch. G comes back from the weight room with his usual litany of questions and complaints about _where his special cleats went_ and _why the vending machine doesn’t work_ and he’s shirtless and probably showing off and all Aaron can do is stare at the floor, and _really_ , this is getting absurd.

He needs resolution. He’s not getting it. 

“…How’s the wrist?” G finally asks, pulling on his undershirt.

“Sore. Slept on it funny. Too much time in the cage this morning.”

 _That’s his cue_. Back to the trainer’s room. The door has barely closed before the ice breaks.

 “Do you actually need tape, or did you just want to get me alone for a few?”

“Both.” Aaron starts, and then he takes a deep breath. “…Can we talk about this, G?”

“Sure.” As before, Giancarlo starts taping his wrist. His movements are gentler and more deliberate this time, and there’s something almost  _intimate_ about it.

It’s a minute or two of uneasy silence before Aaron figures out that G meant  _talk about it now_. 

“…not now. C’mon, dude, not _here._ ”

 “Can I come over to your place later?”

 _Now_ there’s _a remarkably terrible idea. No. G is_ not _coming over. That could get out of hand. Aaron will not let himself be_ enabled _. No. Stop. This ends now. Take charge and say something._ Tell _him it ends_ now _!_

“Of _course_.” Aaron says, and lets himself smile.

Aaron and Giancarlo go a combined 0-for-7 on the day.

 _This, whatever it is, is really bad_ already _._  

***

This is what Aaron _wants_ to happen, at least in his current mental state: Giancarlo comes over at ten. They go up to Aaron’s apartment, sit on opposite sides of the coffee table, and decide mutually that _this is a bad idea_. Then they decide to be _normal_ friends, order takeout, and watch some garbage on television until G goes home at 12:15, and everything from Anaheim on forward is magically _fixed_.

This is what really happens:

G shows up at 9:32 PM, right in the middle of the anxious, anticipatory phase where Aaron is pacing awkwardly around the lobby. G looks around at the opulent Art Deco decor, shakes his head, and goes “You really _live_ here?”

“Yeah, the rent really isn’t bad either.” Aaron says, and they step into the elevator.

So far, so good. Aaron presses the button marked “22”.

“So, you just wanna talk for a while?” G asks him. 

Aaron notices that G looks, well…he’s wearing a leather jacket and a grey button-down shirt and just-too-tight jeans and he’s got small onyx studs in his ears and a nice watch. He looks _so fucking_ _hot_. Aaron knows he’s starting to blush and he doesn’t really mind.

 _How is he supposed to_ talk  _about anything?_

It’s fortunate that the elevators are usually pretty empty this time of night, because Aaron’s urges are reckless right now.

“Shit, just _kiss_ me.” Aaron says without thinking.

Aaron hasn’t even been kissed in a _year_ , but G obliges; his mouth finds Aaron’s and it’s and immediate and desperate and  _naughty_. Aaron is gone, just _gone_ , raising his hands in supplication, and all five-hundred-something pounds of their combined weight fall against the wall of the elevator as Giancarlo gets Aaron’s hands pinned beneath his. And then G rubs up against him a little bit and he’s _definitely_ hard and Aaron laughs against G’s lips because there’s an “All Rise!” joke in here somewhere, but he can’t bring himself to make it. Because he’s never even  _thought_ anything like that before. 

There’s a little _ding_ , and they’re on the twenty-second floor, walking down the hall, two feet apart forward and sideways like they don’t even really know one another.

Aaron closes his front door, and the interruption ends. Aaron’s fingers struggle with the buttons of G’s shirt. He’s shaking, because thirty seconds earlier, G had been kissing his neck and grinding him right into the wall and had suddenly whispered “You. You  _inside_ me?”

Aaron had whimpered “ _Yes_ ” even though he was basically paralyzed.

So G helps them both out of most of their clothes, helps Aaron find the condoms in his own bedroom because Lord knows Aaron’s brain is incapable of anything right now; shows Aaron what to do with the lube and his fingers and Aaron bends G right over his dining room table without even turning the lights on and _oh God_.

There’s another thing that makes no sense, to Aaron, about Giancarlo: he’s a _bottom_ , a big, soft bottom who seems to, at least in this moment, live for nothing but being fucked and leading Aaron through what he likes.It’s Aaron’s first time, and he’s very slow and tenuous at first, because this is definitely _different,_ but G is sweet and understanding and  _so_ hot and tight around him and it all feels unbearably good.

Then Aaron tests the waters, snaps his hips forward with some actual power, and G slams his fist on the table and _laughs_.

“Probably told you this before…just after I met you.” G says between rough breaths. “But, Aaron Judge, you are absolutely _huge._ ”

_Of course G’s stupid sense of humor would come out at a time like this._

Aaron laughs back, albeit very self-consciously, and then he thrusts a couple more times and his orgasm nearly takes his feet out from under him and G is damn proud of himself.

Aaron has no idea what he’s going to do. He just knows that now he’s unbelievably, unequivocally _fucked._

_And he likes it._

***

Then they get dressed and move to opposite sides of the dining room table.

Aaron can’t look at Giancarlo, and Giancarlo just kind of stands there admiring the scenery in Aaron’s apartment.

“Now we can talk, I guess.” G starts. “Unless you want to get a drink, or…have you eaten yet?” 

“I can’t do this.” Aaron sighs abruptly.

“Well, we just _did_.”

“I mean, I can’t do this _anymore_.”

“Why not? I like it, and you like it, and it feels good, right?”

“Yeah, but…” Aaron starts to stumble.

“Aaron.” G smiles at him.

“Dude, I can’t. I can’t even  _hit_ right now because…”

“Because you’re _scared._ ” G says, his voice a bit more firm. “You think I _don’t_ see it? You’ve been a fucking wreck the past week. What’s scaring you? Girlfriend? Family? Church? The Show? If it’s really all _that_ bad, we don’t have to do anything.”

“Yeah, I know, but I…” Aaron replies. _Everything is jumbled and mixed-up and all wrong inside of him._ “ I don’t have anyone else.It’s just…like I shouldn’t, but I…still kind of want to _.”_

“You know, I really like you, Aaron, but you’re always so…so, uh…”

 _Aaron thinks of the words:_ _modest, stuck-up, repressed, shy, too-nice-for-his-own-good, sheltered, closeted,_ confused.

“…Quiet.” G says.

“Because if this got out, it would be the worst scandal in the history of baseball.”

“The worst?” Giancarlo shakes his head. “Worse than drugs, or gun shit, or guys who smack up their wives?”

Aaron realizes he _actually can’t answer that question. All he’s got is a subject change._

“Have you ever done this with a teammate before, G?”

“No, but it’s not like I have a line in my contract banning it, either.”

“Well, does anyone actually _know_ that you’re… _switch hitting_ , or whatever?”

“No, you’re not the only one. It’s…not _exactly_ common knowledge, but Cash knows.” G says quickly. “And Boone, and Hicks, actually. And Ramos from the Mets, who is an even bigger fucking closet-case than you are. And Yelich and Ozuna. I think Fernandez knew too. Shit, so did that swimsuit model I was seeing last year.” 

“…and?”

“And _what?_ Everyone has secrets and it’s _2018_. I keep saying it’s okay. All of it’s okay. _This_ _is okay, if you want._ You’re okay too, but you don’t seem to _know_ that.”

 _Now it’s different._ _Aaron feels bare and transparent and_ small,  _and he runs through what he might say in his head but nothing seems right, so he just sits there, tight-lipped and overwhelmed._

“And I should probably go.” Giancarlo sounds almost _defeated_ ,  _and this is a_ mess _, and Aaron wants to hold him and make_ something _uncomplicated for once._

“…So how do we make it so no one ever knows?” Aaron finally says.

 _Okay, so he’s doing this_.

G moves over and sits next to him, and the rules are laid out: no going to bars or clubs together where anyone might suspect or misinterpret something, because that’s how you wind up with a picture in the Post. No more shenanigans in the elevator -  _that_ was risky. Nothing the night before an early game. Nothing right before a late game. Apartments and hotels are okay, but nothing happens in the clubhouse _ever_ , under _any_ circumstances. Off-days are probably going to be _fun_. And, per Aaron’s request, the  _lights are always off._

“And your wrist?” G smirks at him.

“If it hurts, I’ll tell you, ok?”

They talk until 2:45 AM, or maybe 3. Aaron didn’t even get the times right.

*** 

Talking about it helps.

May becomes June, and the only thing that really changes, publicly, is that they now they sit together more.

And there are little gestures. Simple things, like how they work out more together. And how G brings Aaron a cup of coffee - the Yankees are _obsessed_ with their damn coffee ever since Boone got an espresso maker for the clubhouse, even though it’s arguably not the best thing to drink right before a game and they all know it. G plops it right between Aaron’s hands after batting practice. Aaron hasn’t even taken his gloves off. Aaron returns the favor the next day.

They’re friends, like they should be. It’s all good. _Nobody suspects anything._

The teeth of doubt and fear that have been tearing at Aaron for weeks start to dull, at least for a little bit, and there are a few days where everything flips from hampering him to actually stimulating him. 

The Yankees win five in a row, and Aaron even hits a few doubles and a few home runs and it’s _cathartic_ after what feels like a month of waving at air. They go up to Toronto, after a doubleheader in Detroit, and have a couple of late ones with the Jays. 

Tonight, the godforsaken game’s gone into the thirteenth inning, because _everyone,_ both the Americans and the Canadians, are stuck in neutral. Everyone’s getting progressively more tired, and the strikeouts pile up as the clock creeps inexorably toward eleven.   

Until Aaron gets under one, right out to straightaway center. He  _really_ gets under it. The ball lands somewhere near Michigan, Aaron guesses.

It’s 2-0, and when Aaron gets back to the dugout, G whispers “feeling better, _aren’t_ you,” and bumps against him, just on the other side of too hard, as he heads to the on-deck circle.

The poor dupe on the mound for Toronto (Aaron does not recall his name) is freaked out. G’s at-bat ends the same way - with the score now 3-0, and the ball finding some unlucky Toronto fan in way deep left, and the Jays’ pitcher slamming his glove into the dirt as if to say _okay, I give up_.   

And with Aaron staring and biting his lips until he’s pushing gently right up against edge of arousal. Because Giancarlo is just that _incredible_ , and because really, Aaron is still quite terrible at this whole compartmentalizing thing.

For this trip, Aaron is rooming with Gardner, and Giancarlo is with Hicks, but Brett, the South Carolina boy, had (rather reluctantly) dragged Hicks off to some country-themed bar.

Aaron is left standing at the window, admiring the view of the city at night. Toronto isn’t too shabby at all, especially when you win.

“Did you see the look on his face? G says, sliding his arms around Aaron’s waist from behind. “When you went deep in the thirteenth? Man, you got him _good_.”

“Naw, yours was better. You hit it harder.”

“Mine’s _always_ better. Why does mine _always_ gotta be better?” G squeezes the back of Aaron’s neck.

“You’re _so_ good, you know that?” G accentuates by digging his fingertips into Aaron’s lower back - “ _So_ good.” - and his tone turns more serious and he kisses Aaron right under his ear.

“ _G_.” Aaron whines in warning, as the hint of familiar nervousness threatens to ambush him.

“So, so, so, _so_ good at this-“ G’s hands are starting to tease up under his T-shirt. “-at all of _this_ , Aaron.”

They can’t do much with the room assignments being the way they are, but Giancarlo is just going to _kill_ him if he keeps this up.

Especially because he’s not specifying what _this_ is.

“Although.” G jokes, “I did actually get the _glove toss._ That takes _skill_. 

***

Okay, Giancarlo is just going to kill him anyway.

There’s a week where they do _nothing_ but talk, because there are team meetings - gotta keep chasing Boston! - draining meetings with too many people and too much commotion. There are too many annoying day games, followed by too many tilts that run to what feels like two in the morning.

As always, G is funny and clever and almost irritatingly sexy, but there’s too much space forced between them and by the end of the week, Aaron is pretty tense.

They’ve just lost to Tampa, and the clubhouse is mostly empty. Everyone’s off packing to get ready for a second makeup game trip to Washington, DC. They’re supposed to meet back here at seven. _Aaron remembers what happened the last time he was in DC. Nerves. Uneasiness._ Release _._

G sits down next to him on the couch in front of the lockers, which certainly doesn’t help Aaron dispel the memory.

“You look like your wrist is just absolutely murdering you.”

“Hand’s ready to fall off.” Aaron smiles. “Bad. Too much swinging and missing today.” 

As usual, they walk to the trainer’s room, and G pulls his phone out of his pocket. He shows him the texts with the hotel room assignments and doesn’t say another word.

 _Rm. 808: A. Judge/G. Stanton._  

“Thank the  _almighty fucking Lord_.” Aaron sighs.

Even being back in the same hotel is enough to get Aaron edgy and keyed up, and almost _too much_ so. As usual, Boone wants to check in around nine. The usual lobby routine. Aaron just gives hurried  _yeah_ - _everything’s-good_ responses because he’s got slightly more pressing issues on his mind. 

The room looks the same as it did about a month ago. All the rooms on the eighth floor look like this, he presumes. Only now, it’s entirely dark.

Giancarlo is on top this time, and _God damn_ , he is _so good_ like this, where Aaron can really feel his weight, feel just how  _big_ G is, and G can roll his hips and get Aaron’s cock as far inside him as he wants. 

Which is _all the way_.

And Aaron can look up at G’s handsome face, which Aaron can tell, even in the dark, is all bemused and stoppered up with excitement.

And he can rest his hands on G’s elbows for a while, and then groan nonverbally - but not _too_ loudly - when G pulls him up into a sitting position.

 _This. This_ is nice. Aaron’s got one hand curved tight around G’s cock, and the other is tangled in G’s necklace from behind, and then G is leaning down and kissing him sloppily, both hands framing Aaron’s face, his fingers winding into Aaron’s tight brown curls.

“ _C’mon_ , Aaron.” G bites into Aaron’s bottom lip. “C’mon, _c’mooonnn_.” The bed is creaking, and G is riding him  _hard_ , and Aaron can’t take it, can’t take the heat and pressure and friction that G is giving him for much longer. All of Aaron’s senses are heightened and amplified and G is taking all of the fragments that he’s broken Aaron into and melting them, melting him down into this boneless assemblage of limbs and emotion.

They come at nearly the exact same time, with G’s quiet, drawn-out, aching cry just barely echoing Aaron’s sharp moaning. G rocks them both through it together, Aaron feels the hard swell and fall of Giancarlo’s chest against his, and  _right_ at this minute, Aaron wouldn’t change a thing.

About _himself_ and _who he is_ and _what he’s doing_ and all of these secrets and feelings, feelings that he’s _never_ had before.

Aaron herds himself into the shower first, and they fall asleep together for the first time that night. It’s simple, like some of the familiarity’s been worn in already, and Aaron is certain he will remember it for the rest of his life. In the morning they have a surprisingly silly conversation about cold feet and who was drooling on whom.

Then they absolutely _flog_ the stinking Washington Nationals, and everything comes full circle, because life often tends to do that.

***

And then, in July, just about the worst thing that could happen to Aaron actually happens.

The tragic irony, of course, is that the whole thing had been about his wrist. Or maybe it’s comedic irony, but Aaron can’t really be bothered to think about it now, when all two-hundred-and-eighty pounds of him are balled up on the biggest couch in the clubhouse, his splinted and bandaged right wrist squished pitifully between his legs. The drugs aren’t working yet, and he’s in _so much_ pain that he really can’t think about much of anything.

Aaron also couldn’t think a half-hour earlier, when the team doctor showed him the X-rays, and his face fell as he told Aaron _I’m so sorry, but your wrist is broken_. Aaron didn’t even fully comprehend what the doctor said next, about how he thought the bone is _chipped_ , and how he should have an MRI.

Because Aaron had just heard the worst word he thinks he’s ever heard, that word now, unfortunately, summarizing everything about his routine, his season, and maybe his whole life. _Broken_. 

It was just another game, this time, with the Royals. It was the bottom of the first inning. Junis hadn’t _meant_ to hit him, but the particular way the ball just got away from him had collided with the normal motion of Aaron’s swing, and...

… _This_ was the result.

It didn’t even feel like he had been hit that hard, but then in the fourth, the pain had pounced on him, aggressive and white-hot, and…he thinks, just for a few moments, maybe irrationally, that _maybe_ God is punishing him. 

Punishing him, maybe, for…

There’s some kind of ruckus in the hallway, and before Aaron can wonder any further, Giancarlo is there with him, sitting next to him, his hand squeezing Aaron’s shoulder because he _knows_ Aaron needs it and because really, screw the “nothing in the clubhouse” rule right  _now._

“I heard.” G says. “How long?”

Aaron can barely bring himself to say it. “Three weeks at the very earliest, assuming everything goes normally…”

“ _Fuck_.” G pulls Aaron into a hug, and Aaron sniffs and lets the tears start to build on his eyelashes.

_This can’t be happening._

“Score?” Aaron mumbles against G’s jersey so he doesn’t start sobbing.

 “7-2. Didi’s just _pounded_ them. Three innings left, so I gotta go.”

“I wish you didn’t have to. Why can’t it start raining?” Aaron smiles weakly into the crook of G’s neck. “It never rains when we _want_ it to.”

“ _I got you._ ” G says. “Anything you need, I _got_ you, okay?”  

“Thanks.” Aaron squeezes him tightly. “Thanks for everything, you know?”

G goes back to the game, and Aaron is so tired, and hurting so badly in every conceivable way that he barely remembers the rest of the night. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted to anyway. 

*** 

The first day after he breaks his wrist is an off-day. Aaron goes to the hospital, where his arm gets scanned and prodded and scrutinized by too many people. The good news is that he won’t need surgery. The bad news is that he’ll need rest, and lots of it.

The day after, the Yankees play a doubleheader.

Aaron stays at his apartment, tired and stupefied from the pain pills and the sleeping pills, just enough to get him past the first couple of days. He can’t even watch the games because it’s too painful, too much of a reminder of what he can’t have right now. Several things he can’t have right now.

_And they’re five-and-a-half games back, and it’s probably just going to get worse._

Instead, he does chores, calls his mother, and then sits in bed and catches up on the news on his phone, because - why _not?_ \- he’s been out of the social media and general sports-yak loop for a while. 

And he reads about what happened on Twitter. With Newcomb, and Turner, and Hader. _Hader!_ Aaron had met him just a couple of weeks earlier at the All-Star Game. Shook his hand. Complimented him on his amazing season. Genuinely kind of liked him. Nice kid. Unassuming. And now he’s reading words, angry and hurtful and _hateful_ words that, regardless of their intended context, feel like a dart that’s shot him right in the stomach. 

He wonders if any of his friends, his _teammates_ , the people in the Office, would ever think about him that way, if they knew. If they would ever think about Giancarlo that way. If anyone would ever think of either of them the same. Would he still be a  _star_ if they knew? He doesn’t even have a _distraction_ to prevent himself from going there.

Sure, it’s 2018, but…what _is he doing? What_ is  _he?_

He slumps over, pulls a blanket over his eyes, blots out the light, and just _shuts down_.

“ _Hey_.”

Aaron wakes up to bright, morning sunlight and someone talking.

The mattress shifts beneath him, and there are fingertips, soft, _big_ fingertips against his jaw, and Aaron smiles, almost as if by reflex, but he’s so groggy he can’t talk very well.

“…How the fuck’d you get in here?”

“You gave me a key yourself two nights ago, dumbass.” G laughs at him. “How ya feelin’?”

“Did we win ‘em both?”

“Split.”

Aaron rolls over and sighs.

“You okay?”

“Am I _broken_ , G?” A _aron isn’t even sure in which way he means or why he’s even asking._

“No.” G rolls his eyes and laughs. “I do, however, think you’re probably really _bored_ here. Booney says to join us as soon as you’re ready.” 

***

Baseball looks different when Aaron isn’t actually _playing_. He’s still wearing his uniform pants, and even his cleats, but no jersey or cap or gold chains or eye black today. At least for the foreseeable future - perhaps another few weeks, the doctor had told him earlier that morning - he has transitioned from outfielder and designated hitter to…the World’s Largest Cheerleader. And Dugout Psychologist, because everyone wants to talk. 

He still takes his customary stroll behind home plate before the game. It’s a dark cloudy, mid-August day, and still very hot at six o’clock in the evening.

_Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six._

Aaron counts to himself as he flicks the seeds into the grass, a motion which is still slow and unfamiliar with his _left_ hand.

 _Everything_ feels odd with his left hand. Giancarlo’s become a sort of personal assistant, holding doors open, taking over the coffee-distributing duties full-time, and carrying Aaron’s luggage (although the rookies help a lot with that as well). 

_Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three._

  _Of course, there are other things, too. “Can’t have you using your hand to get off and slowin’ down your healing.” G had lectured him, with a little wink, just four hours earlier. Then G had slid down Aaron’s favorite pair of sweats. G had just shaved, and his face was smooth and warm against the bare skin of Aaron’s hips, his mouth gentle and silky-soft as he had kissed up Aaron’s inner thigh. The shades were drawn, the darkness was soothing, G smelled_ really  _good, and they had woken up_ together  _and Aaron was gasping out his thanks and…clearly, the “nothing right before a late game” rule was going out the window like it had been thrown by a pitcher with very,_ very  _poor control._

Well, Aaron doesn’t have to _not_ be distracted today, so he’ll probably run with that memory for an inning or two later. 

Perhaps there’s a kind of mental freedom in not playing, too.

_Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty._

Aaron stops, looks down at the freshly groomed dirt of the box, and tries to decide what he’s going to write today. Sometimes it’s a Bible verse (2 Cor. 5:7 is a particular favorite). Sometimes a single word to motivate him. Other times, it’s just a smiley face. 

Today he traces the number _99_.

And the number _27_ beneath that.

And _A + G_ beneath that.  

And he draws a heart around all of it, like a high school girl might do, and he sighs, and sighs again, and quickly swipes the whole thing away with his left arm.

There’s a lot of time to think. A lot of it’s just thinking about baseball, about strategy, about perspectives he never had while playing. But more and more lately, he thinks about G, and he thinks about him and G together, and he wonders exactly _what they are_. They’re friends, good friends, but of course there’s more. They are teammates, and very close teammates, but not everything falls firmly under that umbrella either. Maybe G is his _boyfriend_ , but Aaron doesn’t really like that word, because there’s something…cheap and frivolous about it. Maybe none of it fits into a defined category at all. Maybe none of it is supposed to.

_They’re just…ninety-nine and twenty-seven, with all of those nines multiplying into twenty-seven in ways Aaron doesn’t even fully understand. Left field and right field, from the New York Yankees, Aaron Judge and Giancarlo Stanton. A + G._

***

Aaron is cleared to play catch and take a few swings two-and-a-half weeks later. It’s taken extra weeks of pills and splinting and cortisone shots, but his wrist is finally starting to heal.

He’s down in the batting cages, starting to go through a few exercises and beginning the regular motion of swinging a bat again. It’s at maybe one-third of the speed that he’s used to, however, because it still _stings_ on the follow-through.

“Hey.” G says, somewhere behind him.

Aaron takes another couple of cuts and flexes his wrist cautiously.

“Looking pretty good! How you doin’?” 

“Bored. You?” 

“Yeah, _about_ that.” G cocks his head a little. “Is it bad form if I ask _how the wrist is feeling?_ ” 

“You know the answer, dude.”

They leave together, and there’s something rather comforting about the trainer’s room in _this_ context, even though there have been plenty of times over the past month where Aaron has definitely _not_ wanted to be in here.

G tapes his left wrist today, more an inside joke while they talk than anything that serves real function. At first they’re just shooting the bull, meandering aimlessly from topic to topic. But then G has an  _idea_ , and one that certainly gives Aaron pause.

“Wait.” Aaron says, pulling his hand back, not really _believing_ what he’s just heard. “…are you _out of your mind_ , Giancarlo?”

“Actually using my first name!” G laughs, “Well, this must be _really_ serious, now.”

“Dude, I am absolutely not making a _sex tape_ with you. We talked about this, G. About _shit getting out._ ”

“It’s not a sex tape. Just…a few seconds, with my phone. It’s only for  _us_ , I _promise_.” 

“I believe that still _counts_ as a sex tape.” Aaron’s red-faced and indignant, but kind of…amused, to say the least, by the proposition.

“I’ll delete it, I _swear._ You trust me, right?”

“Yeah, but….” Aaron shakes his head. “What if you accidentally post it on Instagram?”

“I’ll log out of Instagram. It’s not like my butt is capable of logging me back in.”

“And Twitter?”

“I use Twitter like four times a year, but yes. _And_ Twitter.”

Aaron observes, almost too late, that G has backed him into the corner of the room. “Maybe…” G’s arms are boxing him in, his breath hot in Aaron’s ear, “…we can do like we did in DC that one time, only you can  _ride me for a while?_ ”

Now _that_ is something that Aaron is definitely _not_ doing. No, sir. He is _not_ into that.

***

Aaron’s kind of a hypocrite.

They’re at G’s place, in G’s beautiful, modern, almost-over-the-top penthouse apartment, on the living room floor in a pile of comforters and plush pillows. Giancarlo is lying on his back in only his white, sleeveless T-shirt, and Aaron is on top of him. Or, is _trying_ to be, rather. 

“ _Breathe_.” G pets Aaron’s thigh reassuringly. “If you’re too nervous, it might _hurt._ ”

Aaron is in some rarified territory here. 

He  _is_ nervous. He’s never had anything inside him before until now. G’s fingers had felt _good_ , thick and strong, and the stretch and _burn_ and where G touched him inside, despite what he thought, had really turned him on. But now _the lights are on_ , and he feels vulnerable and exposed and too-aware of his own nakedness. He’s probably going to walk stupidly tomorrow, and he isn’t sure how G convinced him to do this, but he _is_ , because he…

“ _That’s_ it.” G groans as Aaron manages to sink down onto his dick a just little further. 

It doesn’t really hurt, especially with the slick condom and the excessive amount of lube that’s now _all over_ Aaron’s ass, but _G’s cock is big like the rest of him_ and this is going to take time _._ Aaron falls further onto his knees, grits his teeth, and inhales sharply.

“Breathe, Aaron, you feel _so good_.”

“Oh my God.” Aaron says when his weight finally shifts from his knees onto to G’s hips, and for a second Aaron is afraid he might crush him. “Oh my _God_ , G.”

“That’s it, just go slow. I got you.”

Aaron _is_ slow, barely any motion at all, but G starts stroking Aaron all along the length of his dick, urging him into a rhythm. It _definitely_ feels good now.

“Wanted this.” G bites out at him. “Wanted this - ohh _hhh_ \- _forever._ ”

“ _G_.” Aaron pleads.

“Okay, you ready?”

Aaron nods, and G reaches onto the nearest pillow for his phone, which he props up on his chest with one hand.

He doesn’t even know if G _is_ recording, but Aaron can get some leverage and friction now and Aaron wants - shit, he doesn’t know what he wants, other than maybe to make G _give in completely_ , and he loses track of just how fast he’s started moving, back onto G’s cock and forward and up into G’s hand. He doesn’t know _what_ he’s saying beyond that it’s  _dirty_ , and he’s _shocked_ \- he never thought he’d actually _talk dirty_ before. 

“You like me like _this?_ ” Aaron’s now almost _taunting_ him.  _He’s not supposed to be liking it this much_. “You like me fucking you _hard_?”

“ _Yeah_. Keep _going._ ”

 “You gonna come inside me, G?” _God,_ _he’s not supposed to say things like that!_

“Yeah, _fuck._ ”

Aaron keeps moving, and speaking, and G twists his palm around the head of Aaron’s cock and Aaron comes, just about the hardest he ever has in his life, but he’s almost used to G destroying him like this.

G actually _was_ recording.

“You like me like _this?_ ”

Aaron’s voice sounds _strange_ and distant through the tiny speakers in G’s phone, and he’s almost embarrassed to watch, even though it’s just maybe twenty or thirty seconds, but _it’ll be fun_ , G tells him, sidling up next to him on the floor.

Then Aaron wants to watch it again, because it’s weirdly erotic, because he looks…good, like that, and because he and Giancarlo look positively _scorching_ together. And again. God, they even _fit_ well together. And _again._

Until, finally, G taps twice on the screen and deletes the video. He swipes right, and then left, showing Aaron that the evidence is, as he promised, gone.

“So…what was the _point_ , then?” Aaron asks.

“Hmm…to show you it’s _still all okay_?” G grabs his hand. “Maybe show you how you’re _comfortable_ , and _confident_ , and…” 

 _Of course, knowing G, this would make no sense either, but right now, his reasoning actually_ does, in a funny, roundabout way _…_

“…and you’re _so hot_ like that.” 

…and Aaron is grateful for it. So grateful, that he actually starts to tell G that, but G waves his hands and grins.

 “And, well, we’re seven-and-a-half out of first, Boston’s running away with it, and you’re bored. What the fuck else are we supposed to do?”

***

It happens later.

Four days after Aaron comes off the DL, three days after Aaron gets his first hit in six weeks, and two days after Giancarlo knocks in four runs but Boston blows them out anyway, Hicks walks the Yankees off against Baltimore.

New York clinches the first Wild Card spot in the American League.

Sure, it’s just Baltimore, and it’s a somewhat-less-enthusiastic Wild Card party, but it’s still a party. Aaron gets more hugs than he got last year - from Boone, and Didi, and Miguel, Gleyber, Gary, and Cutch and all of the hitting coaches, and from G, who just _doesn’t want to let go_. First postseason with the Yankees will do that, perhaps.

Aaron douses him with champagne (during the period where the whole clubhouse, gaggle of reporters and all, gets doused). Someone takes video of it, which will probably end up on the Internet, but that’s okay, because nobody can infer much from that, and because they won and Aaron did something besides just cheer this time.

Because fuck, he loves his team. 

But it happens after that, after they run out of alcohol and G gets a little tipsy, after the strains of “New York, New York” die down, and most of the team stumbles into various buses and cabs and off to various dance floors, or VIP rooms, or home to their wives.

They go back to G’s apartment and have a couple more glasses of champagne, the really expensive stuff that G somehow smuggles out of Boone’s office. G gets pretty drunk, and it’s not long before Aaron ends up spoiled and deconstructed and ravished and thoroughly _enjoyed_ all over the dark blue satin of G’s bed.

God, Aaron’s going to have _marks_ all over. He forgot that they never made a rule about _that_. “Got drunk after the clinching game and tripped over my own bag” seems like a good enough excuse if he needs it. G might need it too.

Aaron is satisfied and fuzzy from alcohol and spent adrenaline, and he just notices for the first time, that there’s _music_ , Nat King Cole, or something, playing over Giancarlo’s new sound system.

G is in a similar, pleasantly numb state next to him, lazily feeling around somewhere in a drawer next to the bed until he finds a big Cuban cigar. He’s even got the one of those fancy sharp cigar cutters, and he makes a couple of cuts and then lights it with the clink of a heavy platinum Zippo.

G takes a rather deep (although not effortless) drag on the thing and flops over, warm aromatic smoke curling above them.

“Really?” Aaron laughs out loud. “The fuck are you, Hugh Hefner?”

“Hey, we all have our guilty pleasures.” G smiles.

It’s _after_ that, still. After more music, and some gentle silence, and G resting his head on Aaron’s shoulder.

Aaron doesn’t know why he’s compelled to ask the question, but he does anyway.

“Do you think you’d stay in New York forever? If you got the chance?” 

“Sure.” G offers the cigar to Aaron, who politely declines. “…But only if you were here too.”

“Forever?”

“Yeah. _Forever_ , if you haven’t figured that out.”

And G looks up, sleepy and inebriated, and looks him dead in the eye. “Shit. I think I love you, Aaron.”

There are a million different ways Aaron could respond, including several ways in which he really _should_ , but in the ensuing mental short-circuit he chooses perhaps the _worst_ way possible.

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because we’re just two sides of the same stupid coin. Because you _get_ me. Because I…”

“It’s okay, G.”

 _This is bad. Oh, this is really, really, really_ bad _._  

*** 

 _They’re just words._ Aaron tells himself. _He was drunk._

 _Just words._ He leaves early, around seven. G is relaxed and comfortable and dead to the world, but Aaron is quiet.

And hesitant. Of course he wanted to stay. He realizes that he wanted to stay just after he gets into the cab, which is probably the way it always goes.

He wanted to stay, and sleep until ten, and fix probably-a-little-hungover G some hot coffee, and snuggle and watch highlights of Hicks walking off seventeen more times and acknowledge _how lucky he is_. Aaron wanted to kiss every single one of G’s freckles and tell him _I am yours,_ and laugh together the whole Lyft ride to Yankee Stadium as prelude to another walloping of the Orioles. Because of course the same realization, everything that had been waiting and simmering the whole time, had knocked Aaron out like a haymaker to the face. Right after G had told him. _How could it have not?_

But suddenly he’s submerged and petrified and everything is five-million miles-per-hour in his head. _Just words._

_Words he can’t say._

Words that are the manifestation of actions.

And actions do have consequences. Causes do have effects, and really, Aaron should have figured that this lost season of joking and fooling around and sex and secrets and boredom and arbitrary rules _might_ eventually lead to this, but… _what rule was meant to prevent this?_

All day in his head, it’s a thousand doubts, and memories, and things that don’t-quite-connect-together. There are enough bad words to shame a thousand Haders, and Aaron doesn’t feel well during the game and asks Boone if he can just pinch-hit.

_Just words. Alcohol. Nothing’s changed._

He strikes out pathetically, and the Yankees actually _lose_.

Giancarlo catches him gazing, lost and glassy-eyed, at the wall after the game.

“Hey, _hey._ ” G rubs his hand fondly across Aaron’s shoulders. “You okay in there?”

“Yeah.”

He _loves_ when G touches him, regardless of when or where, and _this is everything he needs right now_ , but he’s agitated and impenetrable and under that, Aaron is _panicking_.  

“How’s your wrist?”

 “It’s fine, thanks.” 

_Maybe those are just words too._

A day’s worth of distance doesn’t help. A week’s worth of distance doesn’t help. But everything falls back neatly into its compartments, and Aaron and G are friendly, and they’re excited, even, when Oakland comes to town the first week of October.

_He doesn’t sleep much the night before. Aaron hasn’t slept much in days._

The next day, it’s bright, and the hometown fans are preposterously loud. The A’s aren’t sure what to do with their pitching, so Aaron hits a _perfect,_ batting-practicehome run in the bottom of the first. Then he’s in the dugout, and there’s a bunch of people milling around him, touching him and congratulating him and talking to him, trying to break him out of his shell, but everything hits him and bounces off. 

New York beats the brakes off the visitors in the sixth, and then G hits one _nearly four-hundred and fifty feet_ , off of impossible-to-crack _Blake Treinen_ , in the eighth.

From the top of the steps, Aaron _gawks_. He lets himself be swallowed whole by the sound of the crowd, by admiration and adoration and lust and and soon he’s got a twitch, an actual tremor in his left hand because he is  _so frustrated_.

G is headed for home, and Aaron’s face is tilted up into the cool night. He breathes through his nose, closes his eyes, and mouths to himself.

“ _I’m yours, G.”_

_They’ll probably have to go to Boston. And he’ll slip. He’ll swing too early. He’ll dive too late for a catch. A strikeout with the bases loaded, a game-losing error, or tripping while stealing - he’ll do something, something stupid and mindless, and everyone’s blood will be on his hands._

_Including his own._

_And maybe everyone will_ figure it out. _Maybe it’ll be on TMZ and the Red Sox will find out and he will be disgraced and…_  

 _“Always.”_ Aaron actually says out loud, and fortunately, only he hears it.

  _Aaron can’t go on like this._  

***

You know when you’re a kid in gym class, and you run as hard as you can, so hard that your lungs start to give out and you think your heart might burst?

But there’s always that one kid who is just naturally a little faster, who runs just a little harder, and eventually always overtakes you?

 _It’s like that._  

Because in baseball, especially in the playoffs, there are immovable objects, and there are unstoppable forces. 

This October, Boston is the unstoppable force, and New York is a bug on the windshield.

Aaron rarely truly hates anything, but Aaron _hates_ Boston. It’s gritty and dirty and smelly. All of the restaurants are _terrible_. Fenway is _ugly_ , and the Red Sox and their fans are irreverent and insufferable and rude, and Aaron always feels that he’s walking around with a target on his back.

Aaron actually plays well in the first two games of the ALDS, and when they head back home and the Series is tied 1-1, everyone thinks that maybe, maybe they’ll get the upper hand this time and _not lose to goddamned Boston_.

They lose Game 3 sixteen-to-fucking-one. Luis has nothing; Lance has nothing; the bullpen has nothing. Boone is rolling his eyes. Gary is animatedly swearing up a blue streak. Cutch is a deer in the headlights. Aaron is thinking _shit, maybe I should’ve played tight end after all._ Then the whole team evacuates the clubhouse afterwards like a nuclear bomb is incoming. It’s a _disaster_.

Game 4, if that’s possible, is _worse_ , because there’s hope - the Yankees come within one run in the bottom of the ninth - and then Boston, as everybody expects them to, crushes it right out of them.

With that last out, the dugout is empty, and the season is over.

New York is _eliminated_ , and there’s a word Aaron _really_ doesn’t like. 

It sits like a lump of lead in his throat as the clubhouse locker room slowly clears out.

 _Something about this is his fault. Maybe if he hadn’t broken his wrist. If he hadn’t been distracted, if he hadn’t…_  

 _Everything ended just like_ that _, and now he has the entirety of the off-season to dwell and ache and be consumed by every single demon that’s now about to come unbridled._  

At first, when it’s near 1 AM, the only guys left are Hicks, Brett, Didi, Gleyber, Miguel, Cutch, Aaron, and Giancarlo.

Didi, Gleyber, and Miguel head out together, and then it’s Hicks, Brett, Cutch, Aaron, and Giancarlo.

Hicks, Brett, and Cutch decide the best course of action is to go out somewhere and drink this away - who can blame them? - but the remaining two members of the outfield decline.

Most of the lights go out, and then it is just Aaron and Giancarlo, and there is nothing Aaron can do but fall limply into G’s embrace.

“It’s not your fault.” G starts. “I know this is hard, but don’t you _ever_ think that any of this is your fault.”

“It’s not yours either, okay?”

“More than it is yours. I couldn’t hit at all, I couldn’t…” G turns his head and rests his temple against Aaron’s. “I…couldn’t hit _because I’m worried about you_.” 

“G, c’mon, you don’t have to…”

“You’re scared.” G backs off. “You’re fucking _scared_ again, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to…” 

“Stop.” Aaron says.

“You’re _scared._ ”

“Please stop.”

“What are you so _scared_ of?” G grabs a handful of Aaron’s shirt and his eyes are focused and harsh. _Now Aaron is_ really  _panicking._

Aaron’s hands are around G’s wrists and he tries to push him away but he _can’t_.

“Yeah, I was drunk, but I actually _meant_ it, you know…” Then G’s face falls. “…What am I to you? ” 

Aaron tries to talk but he _can’t,_ and G is actually starting to raise his voice, and Aaron is just backing away like he’s been _trapped_ under the weight of _days_ of this and he’s struggling to get free.

“What  _hurts_ , Aaron? What’s hurting you so much?”

“Well,” Aaron shrugs. “Everything.”

And Aaron just walks away. Through the clubhouse doors, through the tunnel, across the concourse, and outside, until he’s alone in the fog of early morning. Outside, where it’s nothing but silent streets and disappointment and empty beer bottles. And he’s just another poor sonofabitch with his hood pulled over his eyes, headed for the train with his night ruined because the Yankees blew it _again_.

He’s sad. Aaron is so sad, that for more than a minute, he thinks that the next day, when they have the end-of-season meetings, he’ll say something. He’ll request to be traded. He’ll tell Boone and Cash that he no longer feels comfortable. That it doesn’t work any more. That he’s overstayed his welcome, even though New York, and the Yankees, are the only city and the only club he’s ever known and might ever know.

Maybe he’ll go back to California. The A’s drafted him originally, after all. Or maybe the Dodgers wouldn’t be awful, and he’ll spend more time with his parents, and there will never again be another Washington, DC, or another Cleveland, or another _Anaheim_. Or maybe there  _will_ , and Aaron will just go on like this, a perpetual motion machine of self-loathing and regret.

Regret, because G is the best thing that ever happened to him.

And G is also the _worst_ thing that ever happened to him, but the line between those two is now so blurred and smeared that there isn’t really a line at all.

***

That night, Aaron has another dream.

He’s in a house that he doesn’t recognize. It’s a huge, spacious house, with hardwood floors and nice grey carpets and who-really-knows how many rooms, but probably a lot.

It’s sunny, with brilliant, natural light streaming in through high windows. Aaron is standing at the top of a staircase. He watches his hand fall on the blond wood bannister and he walks downstairs. He’s walking slowly, as if there’s something down there that he shouldn’t disturb.

It’s warm and relaxed and still, and in front of him, the same bright sunlight punches through the three small windows of the front door. His left foot touches the carpet, and as if almost by compulsion, he looks to the right.

Giancarlo is sitting on the overstuffed leather sofa. Studs in his ears, nice watch, and all, but flanking him are two beautiful children who stare, round-eyed, at the book he’s holding.

There’s a girl and a boy, both no older than four, with intractable curly hair. They have G’s dark olive skin and Aaron’s nose, and it’s almost like…

“Mickey!” The little girl points and squeals. 

Aaron turns around, and there’s the _golden retriever_ , wet black nose and lolling tongue and tail excitedly flapping away.

Aaron is happy. He thinks the sweep of happiness through him may cause him to keel over on the spot.

But then the clock ticks forward one second too far, and Aaron wakes up with a nauseating jolt, into a place that is much darker and colder and lonelier. He sniffles. He’s been _crying_.

He’s starting to cry again, and soon he’s stumbling to the bathroom, struggling against dry heaves, and praying, praying for _mercy_. When he’s finally to the point where he’s lying on his side on the floor, Aaron simply stops fighting it.

When Aaron first found out that Giancarlo Stanton was going to be a Yankee, he was secretly almost certain that he wouldn’t like it - like _him_ at all.

Instead, he _loves_ him. 

He loves how G’s always there, somewhere, when Aaron needs him. He loves his sarcasm and his habitual mischief. He loves his friendship and his dedication. He loves the way G shields his eyes in the sun. He loves G’s smile, and G’s warm eyes, and his big hands, and his shoulders and his nipples and his left foot and every other part of him. Aaron is certain that if he broke G in two with his bare hands that he’d love everything he’d see there too.

Every minute. Every breath.

So Aaron finds his phone, and he texts _I’m sorry. I love you._ And then he falls back asleep without moving another inch.

When he wakes up at noon, with the floor tile cold and sticky under his cheek, he checks his phone.

No response.

No resolution at all.

***

At least, that’s what Aaron thinks is going to happen. Because, in all of Aaron’s irrational blindness and post-loss depression and worry, that’s what makes sense.

But _Giancarlo_ _doesn’t make sense_.

Here is what really happens:

Aaron wakes up in his own bed, although he’s not entirely sure how he got there. It’s raining. It’s so dreary and dark when he comes to that he’s not sure what time it is. He can’t find his phone, and is too wiped out for an extensive search.

He gets out of bed, stretches stiffly because his neck hurts, bends his right wrist, and then walks out down the hall like he’s not sure _where_ he is either.

Then Aaron’s shoulders fall, and the corner of his mouth turns up in a half-smile when he walks into the living room.

G is asleep on one of Aaron’s couches, his black leather jacket serving a poor excuse for a blanket.

There is still no resolution.

But at least he’s not alone.

And, while he doesn’t _know_ , maybe he never will be again.


End file.
